


Butt-Fuck Sluts Go Nuts

by inplayruns



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:36:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inplayruns/pseuds/inplayruns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the events of “Changing Channels” Dean is separated from Sam, and Castiel has to play his role too. Mmm, PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butt-Fuck Sluts Go Nuts

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt at deancaskink at LJ. Spoilers through (and mostly for) 5.08 "Changing Channels," with a small spoiler that won't ruin much for "Hammer of the Gods." Unbetaed; all mistakes are my own. Apologies for the title.

“I lost you for a while. Between, uh, the cop show and when you got turned into Baby here.” Dean pats the dashboard. “What happened?”

“Oh, the Trickster – well, Gabriel I guess – he put me on a cooking show. It was pretty great, actually,” Sam laughs. “I made this awesome soufflé. It was like Iron Chef, only they were all speaking Enochian and I was going up against a possessed Rachael Ray or something.”

“Might be an improvement. Sounds... awesome?” Dean offers up.

“It was as good as things got in there. Uh, where’d you get off to? I figured you’d be one of my... sous chefs or something, only you never showed up.”

Dean’s happy he has the road to concentrate on as he shifts in his seat. “I got stuck on _The Office_ , I think, but without even any crazy ghosts like when Zachariah zapped me to that other universe that one time. Just... an office, them interviewing me about the friggin’ Dundie awards, me pulling faces at the camera.”

“You watch _The Office_?”

“Look, when I have ten minutes to watch television in between stopping the fucking apocalypse, in case you haven’t noticed, I like pretty tame shit that has as little to do with our lives as possible.”

“Fair enough.” Sam looks out the window, tracing fingers over the glass. Dean’ll yell at him not to streak up her windows, but later, because he’s not really in the mood now.

Dean was not stuck on _The Office_.

***

When he comes to, he’s in a really nice house. Comfy sofas, hardwood floors, tall ceilings, all that. The television isn’t on, but there’s - some really weird, insistent music in the background, low and... throbbing, maybe. It’s totally lame but not that offensive, so he stops paying attention to it after a while. Everything’s a little hazy, too, like someone ran through with a spray bottle and the tiny droplets haven’t dissipated yet. It’ll probably give him a bitch of a headache in a while, but he’s okay for now.

“Sam?” he calls out.

“Oh, Sammy’s not here,” a female voice coos. The chick from the sitcom steps out into the doorway, only she’s got a sheer pink-tinged nightie over her underwear, and high plastic shoes that look remarkably difficult to walk in. “It’s just you, and me, and Trisha, and Roxie, and Corinne, and Nikki –”

That _music_ picks up, cresting over her words. And they’re already hard to hear because her voice is weirdly low and breathy and looking at him like – well, his dick doesn’t mind the attention and perks up a little. Dean presses a palm to his thigh because _seriously_ , he’s on _television_ , and then –

“Uh, thanks, Trickster,” he’s actually saying, one of those killer grins splitting his face, because the music and the girls and _that girl’s outfit_ , he’s seen more than enough of these shows that air long after midnight to know what’s happening, thank you very much. He’s striding forward until he can feel the synthetic fabric of this super hot chick’s little nightie, and it’s the only thing between his skin and her skin, fuck yeah.

“Dean,” the girl says - breathes, really, and now that he’s close to her this voice is actually really annoying. “They’re all resting up because of what you did to them.” Her finger pokes at his sternum, and well, hey, hot girl touching him, but on the other hand, she’s _poking_ him, and _ouch_. “You’re quite...” Her eyes sweep over him, from hairline to his toes and back up until she’s holding his gaze. Definitely hard, now, even if there’s something... wrong about this. About as wrong as a hot chick touching him and batting her lashes over his sexual prowess can be. “Insatiable.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean laughs it off, because hello, blazing hot girl all over him, and all he can feel is this uncomfortable curl in his stomach and his erection, despite that. “You ladies ready for Round 2?”

“We passed Round 2 three hours ago,” she sighs, and how his dick isn’t rubbed raw he doesn’t know but he is _awesome_. “We’re _exhausted_ , Dean,” and he does not appreciate the jump of bitterness in her voice.

The doorbell rings, though, and the music picks up, swelling and throbbing along the same as his _cock_ , and okay, that can stop now. “I think you got a pizza.”

Dean can’t believe he’s happy to pull away from this girl. She just creeps him out, like the way he was okay with that Japanese game show host until he started smashing his brother’s balls and snipping at _pretty boy angels_.

Speaking of. Dean pulls the door open, and he’s pretty sure most pizza guys don’t wear worn-out trenchcoats or deliver pizzas while this beat up. Nor do they look so bewildered. “Cas,” he greets, ignoring the pizza box with its friendly-looking red, green, and white checkers across it. “You’re here, too? Is Sam with you?”

“No, I haven’t seen him since – look, I don’t know how much time I have left here,” Cas pants. “But while I was locked away, I figured it out. You’re not dealing with a Trickster here, Dean, it’s my –”

At that, a couple of pizza slices actually burst from the box and go skittering across the floor, leaving long greasy trails behind them. That’s gonna mess up the finish on the floor. “It’s –” Castiel tries to continue, but the lid of the now half-empty pizza box flies up and smacks him across the face. He curls a hand over the spot where it hit and yowls like it hurt, dropping the rest of it on the floor.

“Cas,” Dean says, all growly and – okay he’s never really heard his voice like that before, but whatever, he’s on TV now, maybe it’s new weird mics or something – grabbing Cas’ wrist and pulling it away. “Glad you’re okay, but look, we ran into the Trickster a few times and if you wanna get out of here, you gotta play your role.”

“I do not know what my role here is, Dean,” Cas – well, Dean would say he’s whining if he wasn’t some motherfucking Angel of the Lord. “There was darkness, and then I appeared at this doorway with some pizza. I prefer being here, with you – ”

His words are cut off again, because a – a fucking scarf, the same unreal blue as Cas’ eyes, just slaps over his mouth, like the tape but less restrictive. Cas grunts, trying to get words out, but it’s no use.

Dean keeps thinking about the last words Cas said, anyway. The hot chick in the lingerie. The stripper names in her half-breath voice. The fucking _music_ , which is still going on. And now this, a _pretty boy angel_ pizza man at the doorway, half-bound in a way Dean can really appreciate.

“My friend over there was telling me I’m insatiable,” Dean breathes. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this, until he considers the whole _play your role_ thing the maybe-Trickster told him. It’s not that he wants Michael to turn him into a drooling, Sam-slaughtering shell for eternity; it’s just that so much other shit has gone on that something with an easy solution is scary appealing. There’s some catch, there has to be, but he’s stuck on a porno and he thinks the way out of this could be really, really good.

“Is that what this large sausage pizza is for?” His scarf fell away, apparently. Cas’ tone is even, sweet almost, but Dean’s laughing because _large sausage pizza_ , of course.

The music fucking swells, and Dean’s grabbing Cas’s stupid crooked tie, pulling them chest to chest, and kissing him until he can’t hear that music any more. Of course, Cas doesn’t kiss back, just goes very stiff and drops the pizza box between them with a loud clatter that makes Dean pull away. Cas’ eyes are wider than they were at the brothel, but darker, too, and there’s this definite flash of curiosity. Dean can see his tongue flick out to touch his lower lip in those eyes, and of course they follow it all the way.

“Trust me, Cas,” he murmurs, raising his thumb to trace the high cheekbones. It’s almost like he’s watching himself do this, fascinated by his own tenderness, only he can feel it too, Cas’ instinctual jerk away followed by the way he bumps back up against the touch.

“I do.” It’s funny, how stupid little shit with Cas gets his fucking _heart_ clenching up like he’s a fourteen-year-old girl watching the fucking _Notebook_. Cas saw him as Alastair’s wrecked bitch, shredding human souls and laughing loud enough to set off thunderstorms on Earth when he did it, and still trusts him enough to bail out on the Archangels. He had enough faith to put this mark on Dean’s shoulder and mark him as Heaven’s, even as his soul still clung, weeping, to Cas’ Grace.

Too fucking deep. He doesn’t do emotions like that. He does do sex, and if you ask around, he’s pretty good at that. “Follow me,” he breathes – that girl’s stupid voice is getting to him too – and leans in, again.

This time, thankfully, Cas goes along with it. It takes a couple of seconds, but his lips are definitely pushing back. They’re uncertain, but then again he’s also got Dean’s lower lip caught with his own lips, and just the very edge of his teeth. The teeth make it even more innocent because he’s so hesitant about it, moving by tiny centimeters up the plump curve of that lip.

Dean lets him start to suck like that, careful and sweet. The music goes along, even, slow, until Dean lifts a hand to cradle the back of Cas’ neck. His skin isn’t just warm; it’s hot, the holy thing inside him coming out through his skin maybe.

Kissing Cas is nice, it really is. But this is the nasty-ass porn Dean watches in cheap motels, all this shit with holes and spurting body fluids everywhere, big sluts with fake tits screaming _Pound me harder, make me your whore!_ He – okay, he’s not really too proud at his lack of finesse here, but his tongue corkscrews at Cas’ lips and they open like he was expecting it.

Anna was good, way hotter than anyone who looked like that much of a waif had any right to be, but she was Fallen. It’s different to kiss Cas, the way the warmth of his breath sweeps through his chest. Dean is stuck in this fake television world, and frankly, he’s fucking terrified. He’s tired of doing stupid things and fearing for his balls, and Sam’s life. But Cas’ kiss, it makes the worries disappear like steam. It’ll be okay. They’ll get out of this. Maybe they’ll even stop the fucking Apocalypse.

Dean is being a girl again. Rough, he grabs the lapels of Cas’s trenchcoat and the jacket underneath, and shoves them off in one motion. Experimentally, at first, Dean slides his hand down the still-covered chest, hooking two fingers right inside his belt loop.

He’s had sex since he got ripped out of Hell, of course, went practically giddy like he was fourteen and getting to second base with Linda Walters again over Jamie and let Anna do whatever she wanted to him. And it was all really fucking good. But there’s something about the jump of Cas’ stomach at first touch, and then the way his belly pushes against the fingers. They’re fucking connected, seeking humanity, seeking forgiveness for everything.

Maybe this is a softcore porno, one of those ones made for women where they spend more time talking about their goddamn feelings than actually getting it on, and there’s never anal and certainly not any money shots. That’s probably it, and Dean’s just letting himself get carried away with the funny mist that makes everything this fucking soft, even the way Cas’ body is hard and digs against his own despite the fact that he’s not really trying to do that.

“Feels good, Dean,” Cas breathes, and god _dammit_ Dean kisses the shit out of him because he’s turning into a big stupid girl the longer they stay here. He moans, the angel actually _moans_ as he just sort of falls apart in Dean’s clutch, and okay, he needs to find other words than _goddamn_ because it seems really fucking wrong, considering.

Instead, he drags his hands down and tears open the button-up Cas wears, and there’s so much skin, neck dipping into chest and down more, until the dark hair disappearing into his pants. He’s not too pale, and not too dark, but something about him is really fucking beautiful. _Angelic_ , like the weird light in this place replaced Cas’ halo somewhere, and Dean snorts.

Yeah. Definitely softcore shit.

“Touch me too,” he all but orders, voice hard, and Cas does it, eager. The jacket and shirt end up pretty unceremoniously dumped on top of the pizza box. Dean’s got a hand on Cas’ stomach when they kiss, now, and the _thud thud thud thud_ of his heart is frightening in the way it ticks against the background music’s syrupy beat so fast. It’s the heartbeat of a body that can barely control what’s inside it. “I’m _insatiable_ , Cas.” Dean thinks he sounds pretty good there, hot and predatory, none of that girly crap.

“Mmm,” he agrees, and just that little noise is so human that it makes Dean’s chest seize up and he’s back to rolling his eyes over himself again. “Merely penetration couldn’t sate you. You need to be penetrated yourself.”

It’s the least sexy dirty talk Dean has ever heard in his life – and he heard Linda Walters try and tell him what to do when they both had to bite back their laughter at the word _boobs_ – but either Cas’ dirty talk has some sort of pants-shrinking powers or his half-erection just went full mast. _I need to tear my pants off_ full mast. “ _What_?”

Cas doesn’t answer. He just starts fumbling with the button and zipper on his own pants, and honestly it’s really fucking amazing, the way an angel could spend twenty years in hell while getting his Grace leeched away, but gets all tripped up by what holes go where. This might not bode so well for the next hour or so, but Dean ignores that thought to kick his own shoes off. When he raises his head, Cas is standing there, dark pants pooled around his ankles with his shoes still on his feet, looking incredibly proud of himself in just worn, plain, bulging gray boxers. And just, oh, _Cas_ , who blinks away very matter-of-factly after dispatching an entire crowd of demons, standing there like that – Dean gets another one of those stupid seize-ups in his chest.

He kisses it away, again, licking his way into the angel’s mouth until he can’t feel a damn thing but how good all this is. Carefully, he fucking _caresses_ that pretty sizable rise in Cas’ boxers, with the fleshy part of his fingertips and the wide flats of his nails, because Cas deserves this. The most he’s ever gotten was maybe some fumbling with a prostitute wearing cheap lip gloss, and he’s better than that, and Dean knew it at the time too even as he went ahead and pushed Cas off on Chastity.

Cas moans, and full-body shudders against Dean’s skin, rustling against his jeans, and the hunter just smirks against his neck.

Those jeans are too fucking tight, and they’re down and off along with Dean’s boxers. They had a big embarrassing wet spot right under the head of his dick anyway, like he’s a fucking girl. Cas looks down between them, and purses his lips and tilts his head like he did that first time Dean questioned why the fuck he dragged him out of Hell. It makes him wanna laugh and kiss him until the world smears, at the same time.

With another soft groan, like he’s trying to bite it back, Cas’ fingers find Dean’s erection, and rub the spot that’s little more than a crosshatch of nerves. Yeah, angel and all, but it’s unfair that Cas tears him apart like that so easily, can get Dean bucking up until the muscles on his stomach push against Cas’ skinny hipbones. Now there’s this smear of shiny wetness leading down from Cas’ hip to the waistband of his boxers, and Dean just stares at it and fights the urge to laugh, again, because it’s not a handprint scarred into a shoulder but it feels as significant.

“Let me take care of that for you,” Dean gets out, his voice dropped a register or two or fifteen. It feels like a dumb porno line, so it’s appropriate. He latches fingers into Cas’ boxers, and tugs them away and off.

Cas just looks like a regular dude. He’s lean and wiry, and Jimmy – and Cas has said he isn’t in contact with Jimmy much these days, even less so than before he got ass-reamed upstairs, but it’s kind of freaky to think of what Jimmy’s been through, so much so that some blasphemous kind-of-interspecies gay porno is pretty much the least offensive thing of all because at least this’ll feel good – must’ve been a runner or something. Something about him glows, though, definitely inhuman, even his big dick flushed deep red, and ugh, Dean shouldn’t be thinking about these things.

“Well,” Cas says, eventually. “I… have not done this with anyone, as you know, but I have observed humanity for millennia, and I am well aware of what to do, I believe.” Again, worst dirty talk ever. Again, it just makes Dean squeeze his eyes shut and curl his toes, so he doesn’t come all over the floor, because this is a porno and not that scene in _American Pie_.

“You’re a voyeur, huh? That’s kinda kinky, Cas. At least it’ll play well.” Dean waves his hand in the air, pretty absent-mindedly, only the angel’s eyes trace the way his arm cuts through space and the subtle movements of his muscles; it’s more of a turn-on than some leggy brunette straddling him and telling him how much she wants to suck his dick. “Shit,” he breathes.

Dean crushes Cas to him, palms flat against his shoulderblades, so hard like he’s trying to leave a mark of his own. Cas could stop this, could rip him apart for Dean happily dragging him on this path to sodomy, but he lets Dean struggle him onto the sofa, lips pushed together all the way. He’s trying not to think about how that just represents – everything. It’s easy when he’s got angel spit clearing his mind of everything but how much he deserves this, and how it’ll all be okay, they’ll bust out of here and save the whole world, and he’s glad his eyes are squeezed shut to kiss Cas.

Cas moves on top of Dean, his easy weight straddling him, and Dean almost laughs about the whole leggy brunette thing until their cocks touch and yeah, no laughing now. He just watches Cas’ hands slide down his chest, like Cas had watched him – and they watch each other a lot, but it’s fleeting, guilty glances, nothing like this slow work-over – and it’s the comfortable cold of the night Castiel strode into that barn, shattering flashbulbs and what his life had been at once. More girly shit, but Cas’ eyes flick up to meet his own, and he is past caring.

Then Cas’ fingers loop around their erections, bringing them together until they thrust slickly against each other, and okay, now he’s past _thinking_ because his dick is on an angel’s dick just like that. There’s even a little rough, wet noise, and it’s hard to hear over the still-dumb music but it’s there. Cas grunts, and Dean jolts more to make it even wetter.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean gulps, and his voice has been through a grater a couple of times, apparently.

“Yes,” the angel responds, droll. Dean’s kissing the bridge of his nose, all fucking affection that he’ll regret the next time he gets all pissy to his face. An angel’s blood smears all over his lips, and when he touches his tongue to it, he just groans and tries not to slump against him entirely. It puts a high whine in his ears for a couple of seconds, like when Cas tried to talk to him in his real voice, only this one shoots down into his gut and comes out in another spurt of precome. “I should prepare you.”

“Yeah.” Worst porno dialogue ever, but Dean eagerly spreads his legs like he’s one of the slutty girls that’s apparently upstairs. He grunts a little when Cas pulls his hand away, only holy shit Cas sticks two fingers into his own mouth and sucks his cheek in. Cas is tasting them all mixed up together and it’s pretty fucking sweet, even better when – oh, God, yeah – Cas noses up his neck, dots kisses across his chin, and crashes their lips together. Maybe the angel wasn’t wrong when he monotoned that he was _well aware of what to do_.

He’s lifting his hips, too, carefully sliding the first finger in. Dean messed around with guys when he was in that stupid fucked-up period after Sam went to Stanford, but he didn’t have sex with them or blow anyone because he’s not _gay_ , thank you. Some of them, along with a couple of kinky girls in his past, stuck fingers up his ass, at least, and fine it felt good – great – but it was still nothing like this. Cas’ finger is wet, sure, practically sleek, but Dean has never felt the muscles there involuntarily clench back against the digit inside him. He can’t get enough of this, and it’s just his fingers.

“Greedy,” Cas murmurs, and that is _so fucking hot_. At the same time, Cas’ thumb reaches down to press the spongy spot between his balls and ass and Dean swears it’s only through the magic of television that he doesn’t shoot his load right there, all over the angel’s body.

“Cas,” Dean whines, and he’s rewarded with another finger pushing inside him. If he had any shame left, that all but murders it. His feet plant flat against the sofa, and he bends his knees up and raises his hips. That’s fucking all exposed, the muscles through his thighs leading up to right between his legs. The blue in Cas’ eyes goes practically navy as they zero in on his fingers inside that tight hole, and fuck yeah, Dean thinks, he’s good.

Then the fingers _crook_ and again, Dean isn’t thinking a goddamn thing. “Fuck me,” and he’s begging for it, until Cas opens up those fingers and he can’t do anything other than tip his head back and moan loud enough to shake the foundations of this fancy-schmancy house.

“Yes, I think so.” And then the tip of him is right _there_ , and it’s so big and Dean knows he’s tight, and fuck. Only then, Cas breaches him, and he’s warm and stupidly silky-soft even as he’s hard and Dean’s muscles practically go frantic as they clamp back. He’s so fucking full, _complete_ , and the music crests like the shitty band that originally played this is actually in the room with them. It might be. Porn is fucking weird sometimes.

Cas _moves_ , and slides his thighs up onto his shoulders as he does it, and Dean feels his eyes and mouth pop open at once. The reaction’s basically automatic. “Oh, G –” but all that comes out of his mouth is a stupid, drawn-out _guh_ noise as he cuts off the _God_. Cas kisses it away, fierce and angelic now as his hips piston against Dean’s.

“So tight,” Cas murmurs, far more matter-of-fact than dirty as he slips fingers over Dean’s stomach. It gets a wail in response, which chokes up as Cas thrusts into him again, and is cut off entirely by the filthy noise of balls against ass and thighs against hips. Dean thought, if this ever happened, it might be slow and drawn out and he’d be weeping between every thrust – and no, he totally wasn’t thinking about it – but instead it’s heavy and fast and he’s pretty sure the heat between their bodies, pooled between their legs, could get him off on its own.

Cas is sweating. He’s sweating, his forehead gone shiny, and his arms hold him firm but tremble at the same time. His cheeks are tinged red, and it swoops down low, everywhere Dean can see. Dean watches all this, Cas turning this mix of holy angel and something very, very, human, and he doesn’t even need the help of fingers to splash come all over both their stomachs.

Staring at it even while his toes are still clenched, Dean trails fingers down to smear the white up through Cas’ chest, fucking _marking_ an angel with his orgasm. Cas steals his noises away with his mouth, again. It’s wet when they kiss like this, and it smells musky and scary thick.

It doesn’t take Cas much longer to come, a few more thrusts that burn and drag and make Dean whine, even through the aftershocks. Dean, Dean gets to feel him bottom out like this, the way his body goes stiff for a half-second before he shivers heavily and collapses on top of Dean’s chest. He might use the word _flopping_ , even, only he’s kind of in awe at the way his thighs are slick and it’s fucking soaking between his legs. And he doesn’t care.

“That was very distracting,” Cas says, eventually, right into Dean’s skin, and Dean wants to laugh but also knows exactly what he means. “I trust you’re quite satiated now.”

“Yeah, Cas.” And he touches over his skin, randomly pushing his fingertips into parts of Cas’ body – where his arm turns into his armpit, the small of his back, the back of his knees, random parts – because he isn’t gonna get this again.

All the other stupid shows he’s been on through this whole ordeal had some sort of awful punishment. Every single goddamn thing he said back on the sitcom was greeted with canned laughter. Sam got his balls creamed back in the game show, and not in any good way. He felt really stupid back on the cop show, and that was nothing compared to the fuzzy feeling of fading out after he got shot in the back.

The only punishment here, Dean thinks, is that it had to end. And it’s the worst one of all. It’s that this will stick with him, and when they get into another stupid argument about Heaven and God and respect and end up two inches from each others’ faces – Cas will never, ever learn his goddamn lesson about personal space, not ever – all he’ll be able to think about is killing that gap with a kiss.

He won’t be able to do this again, he doesn’t think, at least not with the Apocalypse breathing on him hotter and heavier than Cas did. He won’t get to suck Cas’ dick – and yes, he wants to do that, so bad it makes this little blush of saliva flood out into his mouth – and get angel come clinging to his cheeks. Fuck, this is _so gay_ and probably because of the dumb porno music and lighting, but he’d totally let Cas come all over his face so he could feel it. He won’t feel this body’s pulse against his own again, incredibly inhuman, terrifying and comforting him all at once.

This channel is already fading away from Dean’s consciousness. He can feel the tug of sleep behind his eyelids, the kind he needs after fucking mindblowing sex. “Cas, I’m sorry, I’ll get you out of here,” he hears himself say, but the words jumble together like static. And then he’s just faded away from here.

At least he’ll never have to hear the fucking music again, or deal with scrubbing the now-cold greasy pizza stains from the floor. Not much of a perk, though.

***

The first hot chick, the one who talked to Dean, reappears in the doorframe wearing a shit-eating smirk that doesn’t fit her features at all, along with all that flimsy clothing. “I don’t know why people wear this,” she groans to no one, plucking at the edge of her nightie. “Don’t tell me it turns anyone on, because they must be fuhhh-reeeeaks.”

She squats down, not too feminine, to unbuckle her shoes, grumbling over it. Pretty doubtful she could even make her way to the sofa walking in those things. They dent the wall where they land, but she ignores it to tap a finger to the forehead of the collapsed form on the sofa, his dark hair even messier than usual.

“Not too bad, bro,” Gabriel trills out, because even if he didn’t want to see just how flexible his dumb little brother was, at least he didn’t look deep into Dean’s soul and tell him how beloved he was in Castiel’s own eyes and the eyes of the Lord, or any of that girly shit like what Gabe was kind of expecting.

Dean thinks he’s back in his universe, but he’s really stuck in an adjacent one. Sam is a _car_ , though at least it got rid of that stupid hair. Castiel’s tucked between two droplets of moisture in a warm front moving through Louisiana, but hey, at least Gabe got his brother laid, for fuck’s sake. And he’s got this pretty form that he picked up somewhere, and in the name of his Dad he is seriously going to fuck with some dumb homophobic jocks that he’ll find in the bars tonight. The world isn’t over yet, even if Kali sucks at returning his calls these days, and life on Earth is still not so bad.


End file.
